18C5.] 
AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
4^ 
married, but haven’t met often of late. She 
Hadn’t more than read the letter, when she said: 
“ Timothy, it is a dozen years since I have 
seen Esther, and she used to be the best friend 
I had before I found you. And if you feel as 
if you could spare the time, I should like to go 
down and see her this winter ? " 
“ Agreed,” says I. And we got ready and 
started off the next week. 
Noadiah Tubbs (they call himDiah, for short, 
^nd sometimes, Uncle Di,) lives on the banks 
of the Bronx, about a dozen miles from the 
city. He is what they call in Hookertown a 
case, or hard customer. How in this world 
Estlier came to marry him I never could see, 
and I am a little more tlian ever in the dark about 
it since our visit. Perhaps he’s grown worse 
since he got married, or else I’ve grown better. 
I ought to be a good deal better after living so 
many years with Sally Bunker. At any rate, 
Diah and I seemed to be farther apart than 
ever. Why! the creature don’t go to meeting 
more’n once a year, and then it is when he is 
going to be put up for representative or sheriff, 
when he thinks, may be, he’ll get a few votes 
from church people, if he goes to meeting. I 
am sorry to say there is rather a bad state of 
morals all round Diah’s neighborhood. Tiie 
Westchester sinners, from what I see of ’em, are 
not a bit better than Hookertown sinners. 
The folks don’t seem to have much idea of 
Sunday, except as a day of visiting, hunting, 
and fishing. Rum-holes are plenty, and I guess 
this state of morals accounts partly for the fiict 
that Diah Tubbs has so run down to the heel. 
But you need not suppose that Uncle Di is a 
fool, because he uses rather coarse language, 
and goes to the tavern oftener than he ought to. 
He is a pretty fair farmer, or would have been 
called so a dozen years ago. He knows a heap 
about raising cucumbers, which tliey call pickles 
in all this region. Whether they have heard 
that the world uses any thing else besides 
cucumbers for pickles, I couldn’t say. I used 
to think, before I took to writing for the paper, 
that I had learned about all I could on farming 
matters, but I find, as I go about, that every 
region has some new kink in farming, some 
special crop that I’ve never paid much attention 
to. All around Diah’s they grow cucumbers by 
the thousand. Almost every farmer near a 
railroad depot puts in an acre or two, and gets 
about as much clean cash from the patch as he 
does from the rest of the farm. 
I see very soon that Uncle Di knew some 
things that I did n’t, and as I w’anted to learn I 
got him started the first evening after I got to 
his house, on his favorite topic, raising pickles. 
There was a large dish of apples on tlie table 
when we began, but not many of ’em left 
when we got through. Says I, “What do 
your folks call this the pickle crop for ?” 
“Wal,” said Diah, “Idon’t zacktly know, 
but guess it’s ’cause its shorter tlian cowcum- 
ber. May be it’s ’cause they grow ’em more for 
the pickle factories than to eat up fresh.” 
“Do they have factories for this business?” 
“ Sartain, big five story house over the river, 
where they make ’em up by the million.” 
“And how many pickles do you suppose 
they raise in your town ?” 
“Wal, I could not tell, but it is an awful 
sight—enough to sour the crop of all creation, 
you’d think, if you should happen to be here in 
August, and see ’em going down to the depot. 
Most every farmer goes into it more or less, and 
would raise a great many more if he could get 
telp just when he wanted it.” 
“Wal, there ain’t much of a knack about 
that. I fix it pretty much as I would for corn, 
only I take more pains to make it mellow and 
light. If a green sward, it must be harrowed thor¬ 
oughly, and the lighter you leave it the better.” 
“ Is there any particular advantage in having 
the land fresh ?” 
“ I never could see as it made much differ¬ 
ence. Neighbor Bussing has ’em on the same 
land sometimes tliree years running. I ’spect 
more ’pends upon the dung than any thing else, 
and w'here you have pickles, you calculate to 
manure pretty higli, and a good deal is left over 
for the second year.” 
“ What kind of manure do jmu use ?” 
“ Any I happen to have in the yard. It wants 
to be well rotted, and if ain’t fine I fork it over 
until I make it so. Coarse stuff won’t answer.” 
“How much, and how do you apply it?” 
“If I have plenty of manure, and I believe in 
that article if I don’t in any thing else, I spread 
on a good lot broadcast, and plow it in. I don’t 
’spose the crop gets the whole the first year. 
Then I put a good heapin shovelFull in the hill.” 
“ And how far apart are the hills?” 
“ I run the furrows prettj'- deep, just four and 
ahalf feet apart both ways, and make the hill at 
the crossing. One man drops the manure, and 
another follows with a hoe, mixing it a little 
with the soil, and covering it an inch or two.” 
“What time do you plant?” 
“When I raise for nothing but pickles, I plant 
about the last week in June.” 
“ Suppose it is a dry time. What then ?” 
“I give the manure a good soaking. It is 
pretty important to have the seed come right 
up. You see the cowcumber is of such a nature 
that if it gets sot, it is of no use to try to start 
’em. You must push ’em right along.” 
“And what variety do you plant?” 
“We ain’t got any pertikelar name for ’em. 
They ain’t Clusters, nor London Greens, nor 
Russians. I guess they are a sort of mixture, 
for every man raises his own seed.” 
“ Is there any particular knack in doing that?’ 
“ Yes there is. More ’n half the battle lies in 
raising the seed. I tried some seed I got in the 
city once, and didn’t have any luck at all. It 
won’t do to take the odds and ends for seed. If 
you want a lot of pot-bellies and nubbins, plant 
the seed of such, and you’ll get ’em. I general¬ 
ly take the cucumbers that grow on the second 
and third joint, and let them ripen for seed, and 
don’t allow any body else to see to ’em. I put 
’em where I can find ’em in the summer.” 
“How many do you have in a hill ?” 
“I plant from five to ten, and thin out at hoe¬ 
ing time to five or six.” 
“ How many times do you hoe ?” 
“I cultivate and hoe but once, and it is pretty 
important that that should be done at just the 
right time. A day too late makes a great deal 
of extra work. I run a plow about three times 
between the rows just before the vines fall over 
and begin to run, then dress out with a hoe.” 
But I see that I can’ tell you all that Uncle 
Diah said in this letter, and if your readers’ 
teeth are not all set on edge, next month I’ll 
give ’em some more pickles. 
Hookertown, Conn., i Yours to command, 
Jan. ith, 1865. j Timothy Bunker Esq. 
An In-door Smoke House. —Whoever wants 
a cheap and convenient smoke-house, let him 
make it while building his kitchen chimney. 
After carrying the chimney up to the chamber 
floor, or the garret if preferred, build a tight 
closet of brick, well plastered, adjoining the 
chimney and connected with it by openings at 
v> ■ . c - . . 
the bottom and top. If the hight of the kitchen 
is high enough to cool off the smoke from the 
fire below before it reaches the closet (for you 
don’t wish to fry the hams just yet,) the smoke 
may be diverted into the closet from the flue 
just above the ceiling, and then let off into .the 
chimney again through an opening at the top. 
Otherwise a small fire must be made in the 
closet. Of the material for making the smoke, 
we prefer corn-cobs, or maple, or hickory saw¬ 
dust. Such a smoke chamber w'ill not only be 
handy in all weathers, and safe from thieves, 
but furnish an excellent place for keeping 
hams and dried beef in summer. An occasion¬ 
al smoke can be made, or a rubbing over with 
fine pepper may be given to keep away vermin. 
One Acre Enough—Sometimes. 
An “Ex-Market Gardener” gives to the Amer¬ 
ican Agriculturist tlie following illustrations of 
what can be done on a small piece of land, 
by hard work and high manuring. The story 
looks large, but we do not doubt its truth; 
“ On a fertile acre, within sight of Trinity 
Church steeple. New York, but in the ‘be¬ 
nighted land of Jersey,’ lives a man whom, 
not to offend his modesty, I will call ‘John 
Smith.’ John’s neat cottage and acre cost him, 
some eight years ago, $3,000—now worth $6,000, 
“In the spring of 1864, he planted on his 
acre 12,000 Early Wakefield cabbage plants, 
which, by the first week in July, were sold in 
the New York markets, at $8 per 100, for $960 
Between the rows of cabbage were planted, at 
the same time, 18,000 Silesia lettuce plants, 
which, at $1.50 per 100, brought $270. Both 
crops were cleared off by 12th July, the ground 
again thoroughly plowed and harrowed, and 
planted with 40,000 celery plants, which w’ere 
sold before Christmas of same year, at $3 per 
100, for $1,200, making the total receipts $2,430. 
His expenses were: “ Manure $150; keep of 
horse, $300; interest on $6,000, $420; hired 
labor, $400; incidental outlay, $100; amount¬ 
ing in all to $1,370, which deducted from the 
receipts gave him the net profit of $1,060. 
“John is only a common-place man. Some 
might call him a clod-hopper. He has no par¬ 
ticular skill, no great share of “ brains ”—his 
only prominent quality is untiring industry; 
but it would be difficult for any one, no matter 
how endowed with skill or brains, to make 
more of an acre than he has done. 
“Another more ambitious friend, who thinks 
ten acres no more than enough, has, with 
nearly the same crop, laid himself liable to pay 
Uncle Sam’s 5 per cent, from his income on his 
‘truck patch,’ his profits having been this 
season, on ten acres of land, $5,700, over and 
above household expenses. Both of the above 
are exceptional cases, their grounds being in the 
very highest state of cultivation. But it is a 
fact beyond all question, that in what is known 
as the ‘ Communipaw district’ the net profits per 
acre, for the past three years, have averaged $500. 
“ No greater mistake can be made, either by 
farmer or gardener, than spreading himself 
over a large surface. The market gardeners of 
New Jersey, in the vicinity of New York, cul¬ 
tivate from one to fifteen acres each. The most 
successful are those who have been content 
with six or eight acres. I believe their success 
will bear fixvorable comparison with that of 
the Long Islanders, whose farm-gardens contain 
from ten to one hundred acres each. As a 
class, they are hard-working and frugal, and 
all who have weathered the storm during the 
past dozen years are now independent.’^ 
